*boyspoke…we’re not kidding around*

So here I was, sitting down to write the second installment of my story. I was planning to tell you about the kind of girl who works the register at a Mississippi truckstop BBQ joint–that girl with her flat hair, with her soft spot for Bruce Springsteen lyrics, her BBQ joint t-shirt knotted above her waist 80s style, and those stonewash jeans straight out of Dirty Dancing, yeah, kinda trashy but sort of a substitute for all those Girls of the SEC issues of Playboy you used to steal from your dad’s “secret drawer” when you were a spanky middle-schooler—

But halfway through typing my little truckstop tribute I was interrupted by the phone call I’d been dreading for ages. It was Jimmy, my oldest friend, calling me from Queens:

“Guess what, man? I’m gettin’ married!”
“Holy fuck! What? When? How?”
“Yeah, man! I know! Crazy, right?”
“Damn straight it’s crazy! Not that chick, Gina, right?”
“Yeah, Gina, man!”
Fuckin’ A. “But what about your mom? Isn’t Gina Italian?”
”Yeah, but whatever. My mom can marry an Irish girl herself if she wants to.”
“Gina.”
“Yeah, I asked her this afternoon. I called my uncle and got us into Shea and there it was, bro, on the JUMBOTRON!”

“Were you drunk?!”
“No man! Haha! Stone cold sober! It was just like on that show, you know, where he asks her over the jumbotron.”
“Dude. You’re thinking of Short Circuit 2. Goddamnit, you’re not going to try to tell me that you had your robot buddy, Johnny Five, helping you with this crazy scheme!”

“No no, man, this was all my idea. Hehe!”
That’s what I was afraid of.
“But yeah, I’m getting married!”
“Damn.”
“And I was wondering…”
Oh no—
“if you’d…”
Oh shit—
“be my best…”
ffffffuck.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’ve got no problems with Italian girls. As a matter of fact, I love ‘em. My grandmother came straight over from Palermo when she was nineteen, so it’s just in my blood to be feelin’ my principesse, but that doesn’t mean I want to see one of my boys rolling over on me! We’ve got a whole lifetime to make promises (and you know how I feel about those), so what’s the hurry? Here’s Jimmy, rushing to get himself a piece of that family dream, rushing to get himself a wife, a condo in Ozone Park, and a job with the City doing duct work. Meanwhile I'm stuck down here in Mississippi. With no way of stopping him. Not even a steady girl to take my mind off it. All I can do is just throw the man a bachelor party and say a prayer.

But, now that I think about it, I'm the best man! I'm in charge of the bachelor party. And maybe all it would take would be one stripper too many to sabotage this wedding and save a fella in trouble. It's tacky, I know, but sometimes you've got to make small sacrifices to protect your friends. In this case, I think I'll make the sacrifice of hiring the wildest strippers I can find in order to make this a party like Jimmy's never seen! If I have to get a lapdance in the process? Well, I'll just be taking one for the team!

This entry was posted on Monday, December 12th, 2005 at 10:10 am and is filed under girls + rants + unfunny. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site. -->